


there is no we (but maybe there should be)

by fuzzy_paint



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/F, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-03
Updated: 2014-12-03
Packaged: 2018-02-27 23:58:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2711447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuzzy_paint/pseuds/fuzzy_paint
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After everything, Clarke and Anya still have some things to sort out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	there is no we (but maybe there should be)

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this before Many Happy Returns so there you go. Unbeta'd. All mistakes are mine.

Grounder alcohol doesn't burn like a hundred year old whiskey; it's sweeter, but sharp, and Clarke's had just enough that she can't tell if the flush on her face is from the alcohol or from sitting too close to the fire. Maybe it's from being sandwiched between Raven and Bellamy, or from spinning around the fire with Nyko, or from simply being happy.

There's a smear of chocolate on Bellamy's lower lip. Clarke catches his chin and wipes it away with her thumb, laughing when he mock glares at her, and she turns to Raven to ask- 

Anya is standing across the fire, arms crossed, and their eyes meet for long enough that Clarke forgets her thought. Anya takes a step back, then another. 

Without really thinking about it, Clarke gets to her feet and follows. 

Anya leads her into the dark, away from the fire and the rest of their people, taking enough time that Clarke sees which hut she disappears into.

She stumbles over Anya's boots in the doorway and when she rights herself, Anya shoves her into a pile of furs, throws her leg over Clarke's hips and pins Clarke's arms to the ground. Her eyes are hard and her mouth is flat, and Clarke thinks Anya's got a rock with Clarke's name on it or a knife to shove into Clarke's soft, vulnerable belly. 

Or a gun to return the favor.

Her heart thumps in her ears, her throat, but it's still not loud enough to drown out the noise of their people just outside the hut's walls where Grounder and Ark and Clarke's kids share the food they'd liberated from Mount Weather and drink Grounder alcohol and dance around a firepit, able to laugh and share stories and learn each other in the safety they've carved together. 

But there is no we, no us. Anya has her alone, pinned, and it does not matter that they split open Mount Weather together, purged it with rage and revenge and Raven's extra special radiation emitters.

There is no us, even though Octavia stood with Lincoln's broken chains in her hands and blood on her face while Anya shattered locks, Miller and Monty helping her people out of their cages one by one so that Clarke's mother could treat each and every one. It does not matter that Kane's guard and Bellamy's gunners and Indra's warriors cleared the tunnels of Reapers. 

Anya's grip tightens on her wrists, mouth twitching like she might snarl. She shoves Clarke back into the furs when Clarke tries to buck her off. Clarke swallows the saliva pooling in her mouth and can't think of a single thing to say that might placate her. 

Not that it'd matter. Clarke knows that whatever she says, however she pleads, Anya will not care; she'd stayed hard, glaring, vicious through the whole thing, her voice loudest and most vehement in the peace talks. Clarke shouldn't have forgotten that, shouldn't have followed when Anya beckoned her across the fire, should've stayed outside with the others.

She shouldn't have forgotten the three hundred dead, the long roadmap of blood and death between their people since the dropship fell to the ground. She shouldn't have forgotten Tris or the names Clarke never knew before, but recalls easily enough now, even when her mouth still tastes of Grounder alcohol. 

She shouldn't have forgotten that her people shot Anya and left her to die. She nearly did die; how could she ever forget that? 

At least no one will hear her scream. At least they won't find her body until morning, and they'll still have tonight to pretend that peace will last.

Anya sits up and splits open her jacket like a walnut shell. She drops it to the side and takes off her shirt. 

Her eyes are still dark, her mouth still hard, but she waits until Clarke reaches for her, until Clarke fits her hands to Anya's waist, to the hard curve of muscle and the rough callous of scars, until Clarke licks her mouth and says, "Oh." 

Anya strikes like she means to attack, hand twisting in Clarke's hair, a knee sliding between her legs. Her mouth is hot and tastes of fruit and chocolate and Clarke chases it like she'll never taste it again, which is untrue. For all they'd gutted Mount Weather, and the disaster they made of Medical, they'd left the hydroponics bay intact. 

"I didn't, I didn't think," Clarke says and Anya snorts and licks her neck, presses teeth to Clarke's collarbone. 

She tugs at Anya's pants, ineffectual and frustrating and how could she think of anything else when she had half her people stuck in Mount Weather and half of them unaccounted for? How could she think of _this_ when she suspected Raven dead and was unwilling to talk about it because talking made it real, when she didn't know about Bellamy or Finn or any of the others, when all she knew was Mount Weather was messed up and they were lying to her face?

How could she think of anything but survival? 

How could she when she had her mom to deal with? Abby being alive solved none of their problems, eased none of the anger, and Mount Weather had her people. Hers and Bellamy's, and later, after everything, Indra wouldn't speak to anyone unless Octavia was there and Anya trusted the Ark even less than she did Clarke and Bellamy.

Clarke's fingers linger on the vicious mark on Anya's chest. Anya's body is a battlefield of scars and tattoos, not all of them smooth black ink, but some raised like brands. Like scars. She will have a new sweeping arc for all of the Mountain Men dead, a war successfully won. How soon until she tallies their deaths on her hands?

Anya grabs her chin, tilts her head back and hooks her thumb in Clarke's mouth, pressing against her tongue. 

"You're not supposed to be thinking," she says, sounding almost harsh. She would sound harsh if her other hand wasn't trying to push under the waistband of Clarke's pants. 

Clarke lifts her hips and reaches down to help. Her own clothes aren't like Anya's Grounder gear, not the tightly tied leather laces or the sharp edges of bone and metal. She doesn't fumble with the clasp of her pants but she only gets them halfway down her thighs before Anya's hand is knocking hers away. She's wet and Anya's fingers are soon slick, Clarke's toes curling, hips lifting, and god. god god god _please_ \- 

No one will hear her, so Clarke lets herself be loud. She plants her feet and lifts her hips as best she can, trying to push Anya's fingers where she wants them, trying to push them in, and Anya, Anya relents. Anya who has been nothing but hard, sharp edges since they met, brittle only when Clarke couldn't save Tris, when she left people behind in Mount Weather. 

Clarke isn't sure she's ever seen Anya smile. 

Clarke tangles her fingers in Anya's hair and pulls her into a messy press of mouths, teeth sharp against lips. She tries to push her thigh up but her legs are still tangled in her pants, trapped by Anya's knee. Clarke kicks her feet to get them off, jostling Anya's balance, and her mouth goes dry at the noise Anya makes. 

Anya leans over, steadying herself with a hand on Clarke's shoulder, holding it almost painfully tight. Neither moves for a long moment, staring and staring and staring, until Anya rolls off her and pushes her pants down her legs. 

Clarke sits up, strips herself of her own shirt, her bra, and kicks off the rest of her clothes. 

It is warm in the hut, overly so, sweat slipping between her breasts. She doesn't how late is it, but the party's not dying down- 

"It will," Anya says. "Soon." 

The excess might've been strange six months ago, when they couldn't even spare air on the Ark, when this sort of thing would've only led to starvation, and really, how different could it be for Anya's people, who hunted and gathered and stored for the winter? Who scavenged what they needed, who fought to survive every minute of their lives? But winter has broken, and they are safe. 

They're _safe_.

Screw anyone that grumbles about it. They deserve to celebrate for days. 

Anya bats away her hands as she crawls into Clarke's lap, all grace and aggression, and she pushes Clarke onto her back. They kiss, languid at first, and then Clarke is grinning, turning to hide it against Anya's cheek, hiding how it falters when she runs her hand over the large scar in the middle of Anya's back. 

She wants to put her mouth between Anya's legs, and tells her as much. Anya knee-walks up, eyes glittering in the low light from the dying fire, hair hanging down like a veil on either side of her face. 

Anya's hands clenched in Clarke's hair, her head tilted back. She's not even trying to be quiet, or holding herself still, moving against Clarke's grip. Clarke uses her mouth and her tongue and her fingers until Anya twists away, panting and shaking, sprawling against Clarke's side in a tumble of limbs. 

Clarke wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, touches her lower lip with her thumb. And grins. Anya has her hands over her eyes; her breathing evens out quickly, but the sweat lingers on her skin, and her mouth- 

It's not a smile, it's not, for anyone else it wouldn't be, but for Anya, it _is_.

Clarke rolls onto her side, leaning over her.

"Can we expect this to last? Peace, I mean." 

Anya drops her hands from her face. "Don't burn down any more of our villages."

"That was an accident-" 

Anya gives her a flat-eyed look. 

"Oh. You're," she says, biting her bottom lip to hold in her smile. "Okay. We won't do that." 

Clarke kisses her. Anya grumbles, but opens her mouth for Clarke, lets Clarke's hands slide over her body, before she pushes her back and rolls them them deeper into the furs. 

She pins one of Clarke's hands, but when Clarke turns her palm, Anya lets her lace their fingers together. Her eyes are sharp but her mouth is soft, and when Clarke cups the back of Anya's neck and pulls her in, Anya does not resist.


End file.
